Detours & Back Alleys

Sunday, 15 June 2014

Everyone under the radiant southern cross has surely heard of the "Pub Crawl". But has anyone ever considered going on a "Cafe Crawl" instead?

Let's be honest - We live in a society that is equally as bent on caffeine consmption as it is on alcohol consumption, so the Cafe Crawl seems like it should be a natural progression. Surely crawling from Cafe to Cafe, in some kind of caffeine-induced delerium, would be just as thrilling, if not more thrilling, than drunkenly rambling from pub to pub? Surely the gentle and quirky ambiance of each cafe would prove far superior to blaring pub rock from varying decades?

On Saturday morning, I decided it was time to embark on the first ever Cafe Crawl in recorded history. I embarked on the journey alone, armed with a fierce nay blue coat, some cash, a bit of wit and a notepad.

The following is a journal I kept of the experience:

9:52AM - Black Bear Cafe
I'm sitting at the most cramped table at the most bohemian cafe in Bellingen, a town which itself is both cramped and bohemian. I just began the fabled "Cafe Crawl" alone, but alone is really the way I like it. I've recently come to terms with being the biggest and most brooding introvert in history, and I don't see my intense solitude as a bad thing.

I've learnt that a lot of joy comes from spending time alone, with yourself, exploring the world around you through your eyes only. Solititude brings a lot more joy, fulfillment and clarity than being stuck with the wrong company. That's something I learnt the hard way.

Everyone in this cafe seems to be deeply connected, whether it's through friendship, familiarity of frequent intercourse, I don't know.The staff are bursting with life, and their warmth is rivalling that of my capuccino.

I suppose I should actually write about the coffee itself. It's perfect and I don't think I can fault - except the cup it was served in is possibly the smallest cup in existence. The richness of the coffee and the skill with which it was clearly crafted far outweighs my disappointment and it's petite stature. I've been drinking it at a medium pace, taking infrequent sips of water. Though I would love to down this beauty instantly, I have decided it is worth savoruing.

I watch as a gregarious woman booms her coffee order from across the Cafe, very politely yet also with a hint of aggression. I suppose the two combine to show how passionate she is about Coffee. I like this woman.

11:15AM - Tuckshop Bellingen

I never realised that two neighbouring cafes could feel drastically different. The smallest o features, like lighting, music, and design can somehow make mountains of difference in terms of ambiance.

I have a theory that going out for coffee isn't just about the coffee. It's about the ambiance, about how you feel going to that cafe. It's about the coffee experience.

Cafe workers, including myself, have two balance two key ingredients, in my opinion, to make it work. Making it all work takes 1 part good coffee and 1 part good atmosphere. Even the best cup of coffee just want taste as good if I don't feel comfortable sitting down drinking it. Having said that, no amount of flirting with patrons can change the way a bad cup of coffee tastes.

Looking around this cafe, I feel like in a showroom. There's nothing wrong with it, but it just feels a little intimidating. Every surface is sparkling and every wall is pristine white, but there are just no features that catch my eye. There's nothing to stimulate me, or to make me feel comfortable. I feel like this chair doesn't want to be sitting on it. It's arms are cold and unwelcoming, and everything feels dangerously chic.

Although I feel a little out of place here, I can't deny how much I am enjoying this vegetarian sourdough. It's difficult to find vegetarian food, when dining out, that is both edible and substantial. But this roll has hit the spot, quite a few times. Though my capuccino was a tad bitter and served without chocolate, and I find the ambiance a little intimidating, all can be forgiven thanks to the sourdough.

12:36PM - Bean Cafe Bellingen
I'm now up to Coffee number three. I had to yell over the top of a - very passionate - live jazz band to order my coffee, but I don't think that's a bad thing.

As the jazz intensifies, I can feel myself entering into a caffeine-induced delerium. Three coffees is probably a bit much, but I'm on a cafe crawl, and I will drink this third coffee if it's the last thing I do.

I don't exactly feel like all my troubles have fallen away, but instead, I feel the jazz music and I are moving so quickly that the troubles can't keep up. I feel a bit like Chicago's answer to Amelie, but maybe that's just the delerium setting in.

Though I'm at least fifty kilometres away from home, I've still managed to run into two people I went to school with, someone I work with, his mother, and a stallholder who apparently knows me. I visited the local produce markets between coffees today, and the man who sold me potatoes and bananas swore he'd seen me before. After we established that, no, I wasn't in a band, so, no, he hadn't seen me performing, we came to the assumption that we must have met while drunk. We chatted briefly on awkward points of life, before I wandered off, still having no recollection of ever before meeting this guy.

The gentleman across from me was eyeing me off consistently, but I only noticed as he was leaving. He drank a milkshake of unknown flavour, while the woman he sat with had some form of tea. I suppose it would be rather odd to ask the waiting staff what the table had ordered, but I'm just so curious. Perhaps it's all the caffeine making me this way. Perhaps it's finally having some time off. Perhaps it's the live jazz.

I guess the mystery will prove more exciting than knowing anyway.

As I discard my take-away cup and wander, reluctantly, away from the live jazz band, I ponder on what I've done. I have just finished the first Cafe Crawl in recorded history, and dread to think how many shots of coffee I've injested in the process.

As the music fades, I wonder whether I've really made history or if I'm just an idiot. As my heart beats faster and louder than ever before, I decide that both are probably true.

Monday, 9 June 2014

Since high school ended, I found myself in lots of situations I never expected to be in. Sometimes, I've felt like I'm in a prison; at other times, drifting off in space. While in this prison-space continuum, I've learnt a lot of very strange facts about life, the universe, and whatever else there is.

Most people don't know what they're doing. Everyone is bluffing a little bit, pretending to be a little better at what they do, a little more knowledgeable, or a little less hungover.

Hard work does pay off. It can also hurt you. A lot. I've been working more than full time hours for about six months now. And I've been working very, very hard every hour that I'm at work. This has put me in a very good position in some ways - I have job security, I have the adoration of my employer, I have gained a lot of really good skills and obviously I have a lot more money than I would if I wasn't working (or not working as many hours). At the same time, all this hard work and excess work has left me in a very bad way. My wellbeing and health have taken a beating from all of this, and any time I do have free from work is spent recovering - from work, and from all the ailments it inflicts. So I've learnt the hard way that, yes, hard work pays. But there is a line between working hard and killing yourself.

People are fickle. They come and they go.The ones that matter remain. After high school, most of my friends moved away, or simply drifted away. We all changed, and because we all headed in different directions, we lost whatever it was that held us together. We're all different people now. It can be initially distressing to go to a party with all your old school friends, and realise you don't actually get along with any of them any more. That there is nothing to talk about, and they either haven't grown up at all, when you have, or they've simply grown into something you don't really like. In the end, the people that really matter aren't lost, and if anything, losing old social connections makes room for new ones. It's tough, and it's painful, but it happens. And it's usually for the better.

No one is looking out for you. So, you have to look out for yourself. I'm not saying no one cares about you. Or that you should disregard the needs of those around you. What I'm saying is, at the end of the day, it is you, and only you, who is responsible for yourself. Sometimes, no one is there to look after you when you're sick, or hold you when you're breaking down. Just as we can only work so hard before crumbling, we can only give so much of ourselves before we break. You need to look after yourself first, so that you have something to give to others. It is okay, and it is normal, to look after yourself. To need space, to need "me-time", to do things that achieve nothing but spreading a smile across your face.

Listen to your body.Your intuition, or gut feeling, is quite probably right. This is one of my mother's mantras. It's simple but vitally important. Listen to what's going on inside yourself. I decided to really listen to my body recently after falling very ill for the fifth time this year. I've had the same symptoms and problems on and off all year, and there's only so many times I can suppress whatever's going on with a pill. I decided to stop and really listen to myself. To my body, to my mind and to my spirit. For a long time, I had intuitively known that something was wrong. But I chose to ignore this feeling, because I couldn't afford to be unwell in my fast-paced lifestyle. I decided enough was enough, and it was time to listen to that quiet little voice. I've booked an appointment with the doctor to really get to the bottom of the issue, and am planning to reduce my hours at work, as they have been a contributor to my ill health.

Just do it, whatever it is. No, I don't like cleaning the house, the toilets at work, or my room. But all three need to be done, and nothing is achieved by trying to avoid them. If you don't want your housemates to kick you out, don't be a slob, and if you want a job, you will damn well clean that toilet. Do what needs to be done, whether you want to or not, and I promise you you'll feel good about it.

Life comes in seasons. There are winters, and they can really drag. And there's usually no one to keep you warm. There are times of drastic change, and there are times when nothing ever seems to change. Sometimes, there is no one home, and at other times your house will fill with guests. At times, the road becomes your home, and sometimes, you get stuck somewhere in suburbia. Always remember that there will be another chapter, and you do have the power to turn the page when you're ready.

Sunday, 11 May 2014

It's 8:20am on a Sunday morning. The sun is streaming into the kitchen and drying all the dishes I just washed. I'm waiting for the people who live next to the laundry to wake up so I can do some washing without pissing them off.

My coffee has gone completely cold.

At this point, I have found myself pondering on existence. Pondering on the concept of self.

The concept of the self is one of those things that should be very straightforward and comprehendable but is secretly a lot more complex and confusing than it seems. Everyone has a self, or rather they are a self. Linguistically, we refer to the self as being a combination of something the individual owns, and as something the individual is. In saying "I am myself" I refer to me actually being the self in saying that I am that self. But the personal connection between me and the self is destroyed in that I then refer to that self as "myself", denoting that this self is something I own, or something I have, and not something that I am completely.. So, what is the self? Something we are, or something we own? Is it all of us, or part of us, or something merely associated with us?

It is not uncommon for one to refer their physical self as their "person". If someone asks "Do you have a pen?" you may reply "No, not on my person", and in this situation you are implying a seperation between you and your physical self. You are claiming that your physical self is not you, but is merely something you have, something that is yours but not you.

So why do we refer to the self as being simply a part of us, or something that we have or own, when, technically speaking, we are that self? And if we are not the self, or the self is not us, then what are we?

I studied Buddhism briefly last year, and I have a basic understanding of the belief system. One thing that interested me in my studies was that Buddhism claims that the self does not really exist, and that all of the "selves" in existence are actually one thing. And in the pursuit of Nirvana (Enlightenment) one attempts to literally detach from desire or attachment, and essentially from the physical self. I found it a deeply profound concept that the self may not actually exist, and instead merely be a construct that emerged to create disharmony and disrupt or divide one large co-existence.

So, what is the self? From what I've found so far, it is us, it is not us, it something we have that is ours but not us, and it does not exist.

Sunday, 27 April 2014

It's 7:30pm. I'm sitting on my bed, which isn't made, listening to the sound of rain and researching Olives.

It has suddenly occurred to me that I am very mild. I'm the type of person that has nothing but butter on their toast, and doesn't like the toast to be too well-toasted. One time, I nearly ran over someone at a zebra crossing. They gave me a foul look and I almost cried. I felt like running out of the car and onto the road, while screaming "I'M A PERFECTLY RESPECTABLE PERSON I WAS JUST ABSENT MINDED I'M SO SORRY PLEASE DON'T JUDGE ME".

So there we have it. I'm a perfectly respectable person, who is also absent-minded, and currently listening to the sound of rain while researching olives. I think I'm a lot more mild than Mild Salsa, and possibly on par, in mildness, with Lightly Sparkling Mineral Water.

Although, that stuff is thrilling in my opinion. I accidentally bought a bottle of super-organic local sparkling mineral water instead of the no frills boring water normal shops sell. I didn't seem to think anything of it when I heard the cashier say "sparkling", but when the water hit my tongue, boy did I feel the sparkling!

So I was overwhelmed the first time I had Sparkling Mineral Water. OVERWHELMED. Mind you, it was Surprise Sparkling Mineral Water. And while surprises are romantic in theory, in practice they're usually awful. Surprise Sex is uncomfortable and crosses some lines, Surprise Dates fuck with your timetable and put your whole day out of whack, Surprise Surcharges do nothing but piss you off.

Surprises can be fun, sometimes. Once I bit into a quiche and swore I tasted wine. I enjoy quiche and I very much enjoy wine, so naturally this event embodied the fabled pleasant surprise. After a lot of screaming and glee I discovered that the source of the surprise wine flavouring was the olives embedded within the quiche. And at that point I decided to pursue an interest in and love for olives, because, in my own absurd words, "THEY TASTE LIKE WINE!"

And we're back to olives. Move over Rome, all roads now lead to Olives.

I find it really fucking odd when people say something is olive-coloured. Olives start off a shade of green, and then become a purple-ish black when they're ripe... or may be when they've rotted. Anyway, I have never met anyone with green or "purplish" skin, so I understand the term, "olive-skin".

This annoys me as much as the term "redhead". The term "redhead" refers to a person with orange hair, not red hair. And their head is certainly not red either.

The list goes on. When people tell me about the "miserable weather" outside, I always wish to inform them that "The weather is rainy; you are miserable". I don't know why people feel the need to drag the weather down when they're feeling bad. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a rainy day, or a cloudy day. Just because you're annoyed that the washing won't dry for a week now thanks to this constant rain, doesn't give you the right to drag the weather down with you in your parade of self-pity in some twisted attempt at pathetic fallacy.

There are some things I like, as unusual as that might sound given that all I've down so far is ramble about bothersome circumstances and my sarcastic approach to them. I like olives, as I've already mentioned, twice. I actually like the rain, as detrimental as it is to my attempts to wash things. I like the company of good friends. I like when boys make me giggle.

I'm actually super excited to be moving house. I am only moving a few streets away, but this will be the first house I have ever lived in without my family. It has a nice backyard and plenty of space for herbs and vegetables, so naturally I'm excited.

I think that just about sums up the extent of my mildness. The fact that I am excited by the prospect of growing herbs and vegetables (and fruits!); more than I seem to be excited about moving in with a best friend.

I think it's time to go. So I will, go that is. And so I leave you bewildered and annoyed by the pointless crap I just discussed, with myself. Enjoy some olives.

Saturday, 12 April 2014

Well done on still being alive. I'm assuming you must have started sleeping or eating properly, or taking so much crack that it has somehow preserved your body in an eternal state of fucked. I really hope you don't take crack.

I hope you're happy in whatever you're doing. Because I know you will be doing something, and you will be doing it at 100 kilometres an hour, and giving it every ounce of yourself, because that is in your blood. I assume you're probably having sporadic breakdowns adjusting with constant changes and obstacles. You'll get over them. The shit times will pass and there is always friends/drinking/music/nature/crack. But again I hope you don't resort to taking crack. That shit is expensive and you're meant to be saving up to go somewhere sometime.

I hope you've learnt to see the good in everything, and to appreciate things a little more. I hope you're at least a tiny bit less narcissistic, and that you've stopped being so terrible with money. I really wonder about things. Do you still have an undercut? What colour is your hair? Are you seeing anyone? Have you left your hometown yet?

It's the strangest thing that I (that is me, who I am right this second) will never be able to know the answers to these questions. Even though I will be the one who decides their answers, I won't really be me any more when they have an answer. This is too deep and illogical for me to articulate in my haphazard writing style. So I'll do something completely unoriginal and use an example from a play I recently did some backstage for.

The play was called "Quartet" - and yes it had four characters and yes it was about music. The four characters were all great opera singers in their time, but now find themselves in an upmarket nursing home devoid of artistic stimulation, or stimulation of any description. Like any good work of art, the play is not simply about music, or about being old people in a nursing home; it's two most obvious themes. The play is about the very concept of art, the pains and joys of living and aging, and lastly the invisibility and inevitability of change.

Three of the musicians in the home decide that they should like to perform the "Rigoletto" at a concert held annually by the home in celebration of the birthday of Giuseppe Verdi. This is particularly interesting as the three musicians recorded the song together along with Jean Horton years ago in the prime of their operatic careers. However, when they suggest that Jean should need to join them and render them the complete quartet again, she refuses.

For the majority of the play's opening it appears that Jean's refusal is solely due to stubbornness, and as such the rest of the quartet are angered with her for what they perceive to be selfishness. However, later in the play she reveals the truth.

You'll have to forgive me because I don't have a copy of Quartet and can't find it anywhere online, so I have no actual quotes to use here. But the big reveal Jean makes is that thirty years ago, when she abruptly ended her operatic career and stopped singing, it wasn't a choice she made. It was assumed by the other members of the Quartet and any strange members of the public interested in the personal lives of Opera singers that she ended her career to focus solely on being a wife and mother, as it was after the birth of her daughter that it happenned. However, she reveals to the rest of her Quartet that after the birth of her daughter, she tried to sing for a much coveted role, but simply couldn't. She tried and tried, but alas no sound would come out. And so she had no choice but to end her career as an opera singer.

While the other members of the Quartet lament Jean's loss of her own ability to sing, Jean herself laments something much darker - the loss of herself. She claims that "the Jean Horton that was" was brilliant and "shone bright in the firmament", but that she is literally a different person now, who just happens to inhabit the same body as "the Jean Horton that was".

The concept initially appears to be nothing more than a hyperbolic statement used to heighten the significance of the loss of Jean's vocal ability. However, as it is explored and expanded upon within the confines of the play, the audience come to realise that the statement Jean is making is not an exaggeration, but a profound philosophical statement.

The concept is essentially that we change throughout our lives - moving from role to role, from place to place, changing things as small as hairstyles or as large as professions and goals. We lose friends and make new ones, end relationships and start new ones. As we journey through our lives, aspects of our personality change, and we ourselves change too. The underlying claim made by Jean Horton in Quartet is that we literally become different people throughout our lives as we change.

The concept is terrifying yet thought-provoking. If I look back on my own life, while I do feel as though aspects have remained the same in my life - such as the fact that I still live in my hometown - almost as many things have changed.

At five, I could not properly or completely articulate myself. The concept of sexuality or intellect were hardly present in my mind - I did not consider the notions of sex, or of intellect.

At twelve, I was articulate. Not yet fully developed, but articulate. At this point, I began to notice I was same-sex attracted - but denied acknowledgement of this due to my beliefs. My intellect was certainly developed, but again, not yet to it's full extent. I enjoyed study, and learning.

At eighteen, I am able to well articulate myself. I enjoy intellectual stimulation, and have now fully accepted my homosexual inclination.

It is clear that at these three ages, I was and am drastically different. Almost no remnants of my five year old self remain. In light of this, I am left to consider. Do we literally become different people throughout our life? Does my former self no longer exist in any form, or does he remain at least partially?

I am not apologetic for bombarding you, my future self, with all of this. Above all, I hope you always think. I hope you wonder, and search for answers, and question, and explore. Change is inevitable, and though so much changes, I hope this remains.

Wednesday, 9 April 2014

Sitting in front of me is a packet of loose leaf Organic Lemon Myrtle Tea. It's expiry date is on my 21st birthday. Next to that is some random notes I took at a work meeting, brown eyeshadow, a gloriously large cup of coffee and a CD player.

Last night an old friend of mine returned home from his mysterious and somewhat prolonged adventure to Gulgong. As is almost necessary for people aged under 21, we had a party. On a Tuesday night.

I had work on Tuesday, and I have work today soon actually. I was planning to just meet them for dinner beforehand, extend my regards and then fuck off home again. Of course I turned up so late to dinner that I actually missed the dinner part, and arrived precisely when everyone was leaving.

Despite having said I would not, under any circumstances, attend a party on a Tuesday night, I did precisely that. I deliberately remained sober so that I could drive home at any point. But then I found myself amongst a group of close friends, in the dark, in the distance, getting in touch with Mary Jane.

I thought it would be best to wait a while before driving home, being then rendered completely off of my tits. So then I found myself lying on a trampoline, gazing at the cloudy night sky, slightly disillusioned by the lack of any visible stars. I remained stationary for a very fucking long time. Groups of people came and went; I remember lively discussions happenning around me that I was apparently physical unable to contribute to. Lola and I made nonsense at each other, understanding each other as intrinsically as babies.

I eventually made my way indoors. At the start of the night, my hair had been perfectly (or rather imperfectly) styled. I had pinned most of it back in an elegant style - something bohemian and a little bit flapper - and arranged tarragon flowers somewhat haphazardly in my hair.

The flowers from my hair, along with most of the bobby pins, laid on the trampoline and across the property, as I laid on a red lounge covered in cushions and everybody's things. There wasn't really any space to lie down but I think I made it work. Of course I then fell swiftly asleep in amongst all the things, blissfully unaware of how ridicudously high and absolutely freezing I was.

At 5:40 this morning I awoke startled and completely disoriented. The sun had begun to rise, which for some reason beckoned me to the bathroom. I grabbed most of my things (one must always leave a trail behind when they leave), and ran to the car, which for some reason I parked really far up the street. And then I headed home in a hurry, despite the fact I didn't (and don't) have to be at work until nine o'clock. I hope.

Sunday, 23 March 2014

Last night I saw a lot of people I hadn't seen in a very long time, and met a few new people. It was the eighteenth birthday of old friend of mine who left town earlier this year to go to uni.

I looked around at the sea of faces. Smiling faces. And then a comment was made about how "It's so amazing how everyone has a boyfriend now". I looked around again at all my friends, boyfriends hanging off each of them. Everyone looked so happy, and as though no matter how shit things were or would become, they had someone else to share it all with; someone to fall back on; or someone to cry to.

I downed Moscato with force and couldn't help but think I'd somehow pulled the short straw. My friends had either moved away to start uni or stayed in town to finish school - and despite their student-induced-poverty and constant greivances about having to study, they were all happy.

The birthday girl's mother asked me how my love life was going. I didn't snap, and I didn't snap anyone's necks. I answered truthfully, "Nothing's really happenning". She began gathering pity, so I continued. "I was with someone at the end of last year, but he was a bit manic, so I decided I'd rather be alone. I'm so busy and I work so much I hardly notice".

The last part of my response was partly true. I was with someone, and I did call it off. But he wasn't manic, he was just wrong for me, and I'm too stubborn to make things work out with someone I don't even like much. And while I am busy and always working, it doesn't mean I don't notice there's no one there.

I keep finding myself in tears whenever I'm physically alone somewhere. I'm unhappy. I thought stepping straight out of school and into a full-time job would be worth it. But the truth is, no amount of money is worth more than my happiness. I earn a pittance, work horrific hours, and have nothing to show for it.

It's not that I want a boyfriend. It's just that I want to have a life to live, and something or someone to call my own. I don't want to be the "workaholic" who "can't come". I want too be the life of the party - like I used to be. I want to be brimming with energy and creativity, ideas and things to say.

I feel like I've pulled the short straw and nobody else seems to care. I'm losing my friends and even myself, for minimum wage. Sometimes, you have to back out of something. You have to walk away and close a door.

I'm at a turning point right now where it'll either get worse or it'll get better. And if it gets worse, I'll quit my job and leave. There's no shame in doing what you have to to look after yourself.